


Instincts

by visi



Category: The Martian (2015), The Martian - Andy Weir
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fuckbuddies, but maybe something more ohoho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:40:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28222557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visi/pseuds/visi
Summary: He should really learn to trust his instincts.
Relationships: Mark Watney/Reader
Kudos: 4





	Instincts

* * *

_So you're like, what, a space cowboy now?_

* * *

He tries really, _really_ hard not to lick his lips.

If he licks his lips, he'll be able to taste your cherry-flavored lip gloss, the one you insist on buying because you tell him that you deserve to both look _and_ taste like a snack. If he licks his lips, he'll remember what happened just before you pulled him through the door of this dinky bar, how your fingers felt when they threaded through his hair greedily. If he licks his lips, he'll trick himself into thinking that you're thinking about him too.

Your laugh distracts him from this depressing train of thought. It's loud, ugly, and sounds kind of like a leaking oxygen tank, but _fuck_ does it make his heart race. Mark Watney looks up from his untouched whiskey to watch you, because he can't ever keep his attention away for long.

Strands of hair are already falling out of the bun you spent almost half an hour trying to perfect, though Mark willingly takes the blame for that. He likes the feeling of patting you on the head, like he has to remind himself that you're solid— _real_. Already, your cheeks are tinted red, which always happen even with only a drop of alcohol in your system. Sometimes during nights in, you'll drape yourself across his lap and whine about how you'll never be able to pose as a super secret spy since your face gives you away so easily.

To be honest, he kind of wishes you two were alone on his couch again. Mark's the first to admit he's selfish, constantly craving all of your attention on him. It's not his fault really, not when you're so addictive. He feels invincible when you gaze at him. Like he's an integral part of this universe. Like he's _something_.

Around him are other friends from your shared classes at the university. They're mostly fellow botany majors but he spots a few people from the nuclear physics department, nerds who study atoms, which happen to be the only thing smaller than their dicks.

Mark ends up accidentally snorting out loud at this thought, which causes you to glance over at him. You give him that smile like you can read what he's thinking and when you roll your eyes, he thinks you really might be able to. But the moment he blinks, you're already back to animatedly conversing with just about everyone else in the vicinity. 

He used to think you were a star, and he was just another planet orbiting hopelessly around you. He now knows it's not true. He knows that nobody could ever be so insignificant compared to another person. He knows that you two are equal and if he had to use some kind of sappy, space-related metaphor to describe your relationship, it'd probably be like the two of you are both meteors whose paths keep on crossing and crossing. 

And here lies the problem. Mark isn't sure _what_ you two are. Never have you two sat down and described what you titles you guys have. All he knows is that he takes you out alone on dates(?) without calling them dates, that the both of you kiss like it's supposed to mean something, and that sometimes you'll slip your fingers between his like it's natural. Hell, he doesn't even know if the two of you are _exclusive_. Maybe he'd coin your relationship as a "friends with benefits" kind of deal if he wasn't positive that "friends with benefits" didn't stay up until two a.m. discussing plant growth without being a booty call. 

You don't even give him a title when you introduce him to your friends either. He's never heard you say "This is my friend, Mark," or "This is one of my classmates, Mark," or even just "This is the guy I text when I need a good bang, Mark." It's always just been "This is Mark," like that's supposed to convey any information whatsoever.

The only thing he's positive about is that he can't be in the friendzone. Friends don't have each other's bodies mapped out in their heads or dance with each other alone in the kitchen with John Mayer playing. Mark still remembers the feel of your head nestled into the crook of his neck and your arms thrown around his shoulders. Truthfully, he doesn't think he'll ever be able to forget it.

It's actually been pretty unclear from the beginning what the two of you are. Your first ever interaction was about a week after classes had first started, after Mark had sucked up enough courage to ask you to come to a party that Saturday. His heart had practically burst when you'd agreed, but once at the party, you'd avoided him like the plague. Confused, he only managed to chase you down after you'd had a few drinks, where you'd confessed that you had an undeniable attraction towards him but that he was the type of guy who was "going to break your heart." 

The entire exchange had been baffling to say the least because immediately after you said that, you pulled him in by the collar and kissed him right on the mouth. That'd been the start of this bewildering dynamic between the two of you.

Now he's sitting here on this metal bar stool, his tailbone digging into his ass, wondering when it'll be appropriate for him to drag you back to either one of your apartments. He's not picky. He just wants to hold you against him and inhale your scent for hours. Just to be able to put his hands on your shoulders and knead out the stress knots you've been complaining for ages about. To be able to clumsily braid your hair and hear you laugh when it falls out the moment he tries to tie it.

Luckily, fate tosses him a crumb of mercy. Mark's only taken his first sip of whiskey when he feels your hand brush over his arm and hears you whisper, "Take me home?"

Home means the place closest to where the two of you are. In this case, it means his apartment, which resides only a few blocks away. Still, he can't stop his heart from fluttering when you say "home," because it makes it sound like you consider his place home too. 

He's a dumbass, he knows. From the beginning, all of his instincts have been telling him not to get his hopes up, because if anybody has the power to break his heart, it's you. Kind of ironic when you're the one who said he'd break your heart, yeah. But once he has you eagerly returning his kisses on top of his mattress, he can't stop himself. 

_This could be it. **You** could be it. Maybe this already is it._

So he takes a risk. He takes a risk even when his instincts all scream at him not to because he's a dumbass who doesn't listen. It's his style.

When you collapse back onto the pillow, he whispers it quickly before he chickens out. Before he loses his damn chance to ask. Before this opportunity slips away again. "Stay?"

You're almost asleep, and maybe that's why you say what you do. It might just be exhaustion that causes the next word to tumble out. Maybe it's the remnants of adrenaline coursing through your body that speaks instead of you.

But he hears it. He hears it deep inside his chest, where it makes his heart squeeze and a grin to line his lips.

"Sure."

**Author's Note:**

> hi i'm vic and i avoid writing by cross-posting my finished fics from quotev :D


End file.
